"Two hours until we exit hyperspace, boss," the skipper peeked into Anilex's cabin to announce their imminent arrival at the "Kavil's Corsairs" base on Edusa.
"Tell everyone to be ready for anything," the lieutenant ordered.
"But first and foremost, we're just traders, aren't we, commander?" the skipper quipped, showing off his erudition.
"Yes," the corsair leader answered dryly, watching his subordinate leave, closing the door behind him.
That cover story hadn't done much good for the ships sent to Edusa and Vandyne, though. They'd reached their destinations... probably.
And then contact was lost — interference, just like when they tried to reach the other two flotillas' ships or the bases on the planets.
Which invited the most unpleasant thoughts.
Best case: they'd been detained and were being searched.
Worst case: the Imperials in the Morshdine sector had known the identification codes and ship types used by Kavil's Corsairs for a long time, and were simply conducting a sweep now.
In any case — whether it was a problem with the HoloNet relay in the Morshdine sector — the ships would have shifted into stable comm range long ago and reported what was happening. Or at least tried to.
But nothing happened. Only silence.
And the prospects for how events would unfold from here were completely unclear. The situation inspired anything but bright thoughts. Very dark thoughts. On the edge of total organizational collapse.
You could send scouts to the planets as many times as you wanted — the result would be the same. They'd disappear.
But Anilex also couldn't order everyone to do nothing, simply "forgetting" about their comrades and "writing them off." Because if it turned out that all of this was just some technical malfunction or some other minor problem, his indifference to the fate of other groups would never be forgiven.
And all his plans to consolidate the organization under a single leader would collapse overnight. Pirates don't forgive being recruited into an organization that preaches comradely politics but never gets beyond words of encouragement.
Little "tricks" like that could earn you a couple of extra holes in your body one fine evening.
If there was one thing the "Kavil's Corsairs" knew how to do, it was avenging themselves.
Both Kavil and Anilex had diligently instilled a "sense of brotherhood" in them, turning a motley rabble into something resembling a well-organized structure that could genuinely be considered an informal armed alliance. Because the Galactic Empire only hired "society's dregs" on a long-term basis if they were more than just thugs.
Short-term contracts... let pirates and other bandits handle those little crumbs. They were happy to snatch a "stray credit."
Anilex rose from his desk and headed for the cabin door.
The deck vibrated noticeably under his feet. That's what happened when you flew a ship that wasn't exactly fresh off the assembly line.
But Anilex wouldn't trade his Marauder-class corvette for any starship in the galaxy. They'd been through too much together, and this ship had always saved his life, carrying him out of the toughest scrapes...
Over the years of service, Anilex and his crew had overhauled this vessel down to the last fitting, turning it into a superbly armed artillery platform, twice as powerful as its standard counterpart.
Though they'd had to reduce its fighter complement to a single squadron of "oddballs."
Perhaps it's worth reminding you what a Marauder-class corvette actually looks like. Some readers have memories like goldfish — "I sort of recognize it, but I can't remember what it looks like."
Completely without warning, the deck vanished from beneath the lieutenant's feet, sending his wiry body flying.
The flight ended with an exceptionally hard impact against a bulkhead.
His eyes snapping open thanks to the shrieking alarm siren, Anilex inhaled through the pain in his chest — no, if he'd broken a rib too, this would be the most embarrassing injury of his entire career.
His hand reached for the comlink.
"Skipper..." Talking on the exhale hurt too. So he'd really slammed into that wall. "What the...?"
His mind had already thrown up theories about the sudden interruption of their FTL journey.
And at that moment, he desperately wanted to be wrong.
"Boss..." The skipper's voice was a mix of surprise, wariness, and a touch of fear. "There's... an Immobilizer-418. And half a dozen ships. Headed by the Neutron Star."
"Whose?" Short phrases didn't hurt. That was how he'd have to talk for a while. Assuming they lived long enough to crawl into a bacta tank.
"The Dominion, boss..."
"Hutt..." Anilex swore. "Random patrol. Send our IDs. They'll let us go..."
"I don't think so, boss." The skipper's voice had lost all trace of confidence. "They sent a message. They want to see you. Even called you by name..."
An ambush, the pirate lieutenant thought grimly.
Well, what else had he expected?
Actually, no. If they knew what ship he was flying... this wasn't an ambush. This was a targeted hunt. For him specifically.
Was there any reason for optimism?
Strangely enough — yes.
If the flagship of this task force was the Neutron Star, then the person running this "sweep" clearly wasn't the "Butcher of Atoa." That meant negotiating might be possible... Shohashi would have opened fire immediately if he'd known there were privateers and pirates on board. Rumor had it that guy didn't even like to talk. "Turbolaser — the best way to communicate with your neighbor."..
At least now he knew what had happened to the ships he'd sent to scout. They'd been intercepted too... Maybe some of them had been smart enough not to start a firefight.
He'd have to talk after all.
"Tell them I'm ready to meet," Anilex said. "In... an hour... And bring me a bacta spray. I need to patch myself up."
* * *
When the hologram lit up with her interlocutor's face, for a split second Mon Mothma felt shock. Even the anger at not being able to get through for so long faded into the background.
Then, once the shivers down her spine subsided, she managed to squeeze out a "professional" smile.
"Ysanne Isard," she greeted the Iceheart. Who looked... somewhat younger than her years warranted. What a bitch.
"Oh," a smile played on the former Director of Imperial Intelligence's lips. "What an honor. Councilor Mothma herself. Flattered, truly flattered."
"I can't say the same," the Chandrilan replied.
"And I'm only being polite," her interlocutor admitted. "So, what about that funny little Bothan-looking creature? Did you finally find the courage to stuff him deep in the dungeons?"
"Councillor Fey'lya has more important matters to attend to," Mon said without going into detail. Honestly, she would have preferred not to talk about the Bothan at all. Or the reasons why she was the one conducting this conversation. But really — was she supposed to tell this... woman that she trusted the Bothan less than a street-corner drug dealer who promised to "go straight"?
In the entire Provisional Council, there wasn't a single intelligent being (besides Fey'lya himself) who would have agreed to entrust negotiations between the New Republic government and the Iceheart to a Bothan. Despite all the grand speeches about trust and equal treatment for everyone who had been a prisoner in Grand Admiral Thrawn's Dominion, there was always a chance that the little scumbag would hide information during a private conversation with Isard — for his own benefit. It would be just like him. He was a Bothan, after all.
"So," Isard said in a bored tone. "I take it my proposal has been accepted?"
"Yes," Mon Mothma admitted reluctantly. "We undertake to cease pursuing you and to refrain from military action against the Dominion once you assume its leadership."
"And also — you'll transfer three billion credits to the account I specified," the Iceheart reminded her. "Or did that hairy little bastard Fey'lya neglect to mention that small detail?"
Not a single muscle twitched on Mon's face.
"No. The funds are ready for transfer," she said calmly.
"And the official document, isn't there?" The Iceheart's thin, elegant eyebrow arched in a questioning curve.
Mon blinked several times before the meaning sank in.
"Not a funny joke, Isard," she said. Maybe they could get away without that...
Seriously, the woman was nearly forty — minor age-related changes should have started showing up; it was visible in the archival holos. Mon herself was pushing sixty, and the changes were clearly there. But it felt like Isard had either suddenly gotten five to ten years younger or was using some kind of digital filter. Not surprising, considering the array of equipment on her end that prevented intelligence agencies from tracking the wretch's location.
"And who's joking here, Mothma?" the Iceheart seemed surprised. "If we're making a deal, I need legal guarantees of immunity. You understand — you can learn a lot of things under the wing of a Grand Admiral. For example, how to properly organize an information campaign against the New Republic. So if you suddenly change your mind in a couple of years and decide to attack me or the Dominion, I will make this agreement public. I think you understand the consequences, Mon."
And the New Republic will collapse faster than a house of cards, Mothma understood the unspoken threat. Of course. The Provisional Government had planned to keep the deal with Isard a secret. The Iceheart was right — the public would never understand a democratic government making deals with one of Palpatine's executioners, who had rotted thousands of innocents in her secret prisons.
"There is no other option," Isard said with a smile.
"Even if we increase the fee?" Mon asked hopefully. "Tenfold."
"Oh," Isard laughed. "The Grand Admiral has really gotten under your skin, hasn't he... For that kind of money, you could hire a couple hundred assassins. Someone might have even reached him."
We tried, Mon thought grimly, remembering her discussions with General Cracken in the Imperial Palace Vestibule.
But after the contract went out, the hired killers suddenly stopped living. And very quickly, the rest decided to turn down the job.
Even the legendary Boba Fett and Cad Bane had refused them. Yes, their exact words were a little different... very different, actually. But the meaning was the same.
"Think about it, Isard," Mon said hopefully. She was willing to pay three hundred billion — anything to keep the Iceheart from having a way to manipulate and blackmail Coruscant in the future. "A lot of money and my word."
"I prefer not to change the terms of the deal," the woman said with a cocky little smile. "Shall we begin?"
Pleading was useless. Begging, even more so. The Iceheart would enjoy her humiliation but still hold her ground.
The holographic terminal beeped, indicating a file had been received.
Mon moved it to the computer specifically set aside for this transaction — disconnected from all the Palace networks except for a single holoprojector.
But no. It turned out Isard hadn't sent any virus or anything like that... It was just a simple account number at some bank in the Outer Territories. Judging by the fact that Mon had never even heard of it — another remnant from the past.
A small financial office that had served to transfer funds to Imperial agents across the galaxy. There were thousands of them, and tracking their operations was practically impossible — because they operated in free economic zones where maintaining any documentation was considered an insult to the client.
In other words — as soon as the money entered the account, it would dissolve into thousands of automated cash-out, laundering, and other schemes designed to anonymize the source of the credit transfer.
"I'm sending the money," Mon replied.
"Not so fast, Councillor," Isard stopped her. "First — a verified indemnity from the Provisional Government for me."
"Yes, of course." Mon connected a disposable data chip containing the file to the holographic terminal. Unfortunately, unlike the flow of money, this couldn't be handled so easily. It was embedded with so many authenticity-confirming algorithms that... yes, there was no wriggling out of this. "File sent."
"Thank you, received," the Iceheart smiled at her. "I'm sending the file with the meeting coordinates."
"Received," Mon echoed. With nearly trembling hands, she looked at the acquired treasure: the first truly worthwhile lead that might end the crisis Thrawn had created.
Of course, Isard could be lying, but... what other options did she have?
"The file is encrypted!" Mon frowned, seeing that the received data was nothing but a jumble of characters.
"Of course," Ysanne smirked. "First the money, Councilor. After that — the decryption key. Though it's a standard cipher, or rather one of its variants. One that your 'slicers' will crack in a couple of hours of intensive intellectual labor. Provided you know which variant it is. And without money, I won't give you even a hint. You can try your luck, but I wouldn't advise experimenting. Because by the time I don't get the money, I'll contact the Grand Admiral and your little gambit will fail."
Who doubted that Iceheart had calculated everything?
"Sending the money," Mon said grimly.
"Oh, don't be so upset, Councilor," Isard asked her. "It's not your money you're giving away. You'll earn it back. Decryption key sent."
"Got it," Mon instantly activated the new file...
Alphanumeric sequences began transforming into readable text...
"Planet Soulex?" Mon Mothma was surprised. "Fardon system. Where is that anyway?"
"North of the galaxy," Isard explained. "Wild Space."
"Couldn't it be located closer?" Mon Mothma clarified. "It's a week's flight, at best! And through Imperial Space territory..."
"Which is fraught with problems, isn't it?" Isard smiled. What a bitch! "You decide what's more important — the risk of getting caught by Imperials, or the chance to destroy Thrawn while he's weak."
"Thank you, we'll handle it ourselves," Mon Mothma said.
"Really?" Isard laughed. "You never learn, you bunch of amateurs."
Mon Mothma felt a chill run down her spine again.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"Why do you think I didn't take the money?" Iceheart inquired. "Thirty billion... A huge sum. You could build your own empire with that..."
"Guarantees," Mon frowned. "You needed guarantees..."
"No, silly," Isard laughed. "This file will warm my heart, but I know how quickly you'll disown it. You see, the thing is... The frequency to contact me was given to you by Fey'lya, wasn't it?"
"Yes," Mon Mothma darkened.
"Wonderful creature," Isard said. "Still can't calm down... Anyway, what was I saying... I'll bet our arrangement that Fey'lya is no longer on Coruscant."
"That can't be!" Mon blurted out. "I saw him half a day ago."
"And ten hours ago he contacted me on the comlink I gave him and bought Thrawn's location coordinates from me for fifty billion. Asking me to ignore you for a couple of days. I think the Bothans haven't lost all their ships yet and decided to settle a vendetta with the Grand Admiral. Snatching the trophy right from under your nose..."
"He betrayed us again," flashed through Mothma's mind as she frantically searched for her own comlink.
"I decided to even the odds a little," Isard continued. "I really want to see how the New Republic fleet fights the Bothan Space fleet over an Imperial Grand Admiral... Oh, that will be a sensation!"
With those words, Isard disconnected.
No, what a bi...
"How can I be of service, Councilor Mon Mothma?" came Fey'lya's almost purring voice. Startled, she didn't immediately realize who was answering her call, then understanding that the government model comlink only worked inside the Imperial Palace, she breathed out.
"Come see me in fifteen minutes, Borsk," the Chandrilan said, trying to control her voice. If he refused or somehow sabotaged the meeting, then...
"Yes, of course," the Bothan replied imperturbably. "I'm just talking to General Madine. He has some new ideas about finding spies in the Palace, would you like to invite him as well?"
"I'd be happy to meet with both of you," after such words, her confidence in the truth of Isard's last statement vanished completely.
Disconnecting the comlink, Mon smiled.
"No, Iceheart, you won't fool us that easily."
* * *
Okay, now I'm ready to admit — Executor-class Super Star Destroyers really aren't just a "big club."
They are also a beautifully designed (though not without flaws) flagship vessel, whose purpose is to lead large formations of combat starships.
Moreover, judging by the fact that the admiral's salon on the Guardian was much larger than on the Reaper, either individual parts of the ships were built to "special order," or the interior spaces were easily redesigned to suit the specific owner's needs.
In my opinion, the compartments once occupied by the late Admiral Drommel could comfortably house barracks for two or three companies of stormtroopers. And there would still be room for a weapons rack, i.e., an arsenal, and storage for spare armor.
It seems either my standards are extremely minimalist, or I don't understand something about the "showing off" of influential figures in this galaxy.
The question is, if your ship already has a tactical room, a spacious salon, a wardroom the size of a couple of football fields, all the necessary amenities (including, dammit, a jacuzzi, something like a sauna, gyms, and so on), then why occupy your living quarters with separate compartments serving exactly the same functions?
This is a warship, not a flying brothel!
Then again, looking at the late admiral's bed, I suspect I guessed the purpose of such luxurious quarters.
The only other question — in the crew manifest of the Guardian, no women are found. According to the survivors' list — also none. No "stowaways" on board...
I'm afraid to guess in whose company Drommel spent his time here.
Though, as a young captain-lieutenant in our analysis department used to say: "May the earth be fiberglass for him."
The only thing that caught my attention in the deceased's quarters was the library.
There were both data crystals — already familiar to my eyes — and ordinary books, printed typographically on flimsi, bound and enclosed in hardcovers.
But Drommel couldn't help standing out here too — each book was encased in a cover of the thinnest and obviously expensive leather, with embossing repeating the book's title. Even the "bookmark" a "braid" of thin leather strips — was there. It reminded me of my school years, when my parents sewed fabric strips to the spine so the child could easily find the pages they stopped at.
Why was this done in the current era?
Well, who knows...
Drommel had no vision problems, the books were written in a normal font, clearly not a local analogue of Braille... More likely — just the same old "showing off."
And all of this costs a huge amount of money — because paper books in the galaxy aren't very cheap, and decorating them is clearly not for a credit and a half.
It's obvious that "Comrade Admiral" had clear problems with imagination regarding spending money and value system.
Speaking of which, about the latter.
"Have you completed the calculations, Colonel Niovi?" I asked the officer who had entered the room a few minutes ago and was patiently waiting for me to finish flipping through one of the folios that had caught my interest in Krennel's library.
The book was called "Myths of the Galaxy." And funnily enough, the bookmark was on the page dedicated to "Sa'Nalaor." Apparently the admiral wasn't too pleased with the author's conclusion that such a ship could not have existed in principle. But now it's clear why the admiral was transporting the treasury of the Oplovis sector in the cargo hold. And, as eyewitnesses indicate — he personally collected taxes and tribute from the worlds under his command.
"Yes, sir," the colonel glanced at the guardsmen in scarlet-black uniforms standing nearby. They, like statues, stood motionless on guard, while Rukh lurked in the shadows as usual, and Major Tierce was fully "entertaining himself" by hacking the deceased's computer. Judging by the smile playing on his face — either Drommel had an extensive collection of hilarious pictures, so amusing that they could cheer up a seasoned professional killer who doesn't even smile on payday, or there really was "something to grab onto" in there. I wasn't going to interfere or pester him with questions — he would report in the prescribed manner.
Same for my four newly acquired Jensaarai, digging through the part of the hold allocated for storing precious stones and antiques. They seemed to have found something interesting there.
Only the ysalamiri, comfortably settled in a cage in the middle of Drommel's study, combined with the library, was calmly chewing leaves, looking at the sentient beings with the gaze of a country of triumphant capitalism.
"In that case, I'd like to hear the results," I put the book back, dusted off my gloves, and looked at Gastos.
"All of them, sir," he clipped.
"Is that so?" I said without batting an eye.
Inside, I wanted to sing and dance.
But I couldn't. Was I Thrawn, or a mischievous peasant whose cow had calved?
"One hundred seventy-nine thousand five hundred eleven crew members and thirty-two thousand stormtroopers and army specialists," I slowly recited the numbers.
That was exactly how many sentients were currently on board the Guardian, which, for the first time in many years, finally saw a sufficient number of competent specialists on its decks.
What was encouraging was not even that all of them, including half the repair crews from the Chimaera and the craftsmen from the Phoenix, had been working for eight hours to restore the ship's damaged systems, including its hyperdrive, primary and backup power systems, and were installing additional turbolasers, laser and ion cannons (as many as could fit on board a single Acclamator).
But that they were "all."
All two hundred eleven thousand five hundred eleven crew and attached ground forces, equipment operators and technical personnel were ready to take the Oath and serve the Dominion.
Hutt's blood, I hadn't even counted on half that number. No, of course I wouldn't abandon those who refused to return to service. We would have sent ships to evacuate them to the Oplovis sector, taking non-disclosure agreements about the survival of the Guardian. Because I wasn't going to officially announce that the ship was intact and now in my possession.
I already wasn't very comfortable living in constant time pressure, with a huge target hanging on my back that my enemies keep pounding. So announcing the Guardian would be practically the same as handing out laser designators to my opponents — just so they don't miss.
Not many such ships remained in the galaxy. And those who officially owned them weren't too keen on having a "newcomer" join their "club."
Especially one who "knows" that alone, this enormous Super Star Destroyer, while a deadly threat to the enemy, is still vulnerable to a massed attack by small enemy craft.
Yes, that's right.
Not only does the ship need long and major repairs (its entire hull is full of holes, and the interior compartments near the breaches in armor and plating are similarly mangled by internal explosions).
Right now the ship reminds me of the Errant Venture in the state it arrived at the Tangrene shipyards.
Yes, I consider the best option for the further operation of this starship to be its subsequent modernization. By all means and tricks available to us.
So while the ship is enormous, the crew complement is clearly overstaffed. The experience from creating the "Triple" should come in handy like never before. Reduce the full crew requirements for such a starship by at least a third — and you could crew almost an entire fleet of Star Destroyers. Though also "Triples." Which still have to be built using the method of "modernize the battered hulls that are in storage."
But the fact remains — having more than half the crew for this monster (and how else to call a starship nearly twenty kilometers long?) significantly reduces the time to bring it into service.
Because training a crew from scratch to operate such a giant takes time. A lot of time. But having at least part of the crew with that knowledge is already progress.
"I hope the calculations of the available valuables and credits on board are complete?" I asked the colonel.
"Yes, sir," he replied. "One hundred seventeen billion eight hundred four million..."
Holy mother, where did those numbers come from?
This question almost escaped my lips.
And it took great effort not to react to such words in any way.
The Morshdine sector managed on some pitiful crumbs of a few million in tax revenue — profits, of course. And here, not the best sector, a semi-backwater and...
And everything fell into place.
Ketaris. A fortress planet, but also a huge "shopping center" that had been under Drommel's control for a long time. For example, the turnover of a single building — a shopping center on Earth — can be in the billions, tens of billions per month. And the profit is corresponding.
And here — an entire planet-mall.
Plus there's a shipyard in the sector, small and medium businesses...
A trade planet!
For many of these reasons, we also wanted to gain control over Axila.
Not only does the latter have a favorable astrographic position, allowing it to be turned into a fortress world, but also the volume of trade and monetary operations is such that a few percent of the profits is enough for the local rulers to bathe in luxury. Yes, these are not the most honest and legal sources of income, but everything can be resolved...
"I see," I said.
And I kept thinking there were funding problems...
No matter which way you spit here, there's Tarkin's "stash," or his minions'. How, with such "kickbacks," did they manage to build the Death Stars at all?
Stop. Could it be that the "kickbacks" were the reason for their unprecedented cost and construction speed? After all, the second one was built in literally about four years — and was practically put into operation despite being larger and more technologically advanced than its predecessor.
But the first one, it seems to me, was tortured for a good ten years.
It seems either the lovers of "embezzlement" died at Yavin, or Palpatine's monstrously scaled purges of corrupt officials remained "off-screen."
"My people did not appraise the jewelry, precious stones, aurodium nuggets, other metals, and antique items due to lack of qualified education," Colonel Niovi's words reached me.
"That will be handled by specialists," I said.
I hope it didn't sound too... stunned.
"Where did Drommel get the nuggets?" I asked, realizing that I had heard something in the colonel's speech that shouldn't have been there at all.
"From Stronk, Grand Admiral," Gastos replied impassively.
Stronk, then... One of the two systems the Republicans intended to hold. Well, now it's clear why they kept an entire squadron there — if the system has deposits of precious or rare earth metals, the interest is understandable.
Judging by the fact that Drommel had nuggets from there, the mining site definitely exists.
Well, or existed five years ago.
And at the same time, the situation, once again, changed radically.
If before I hadn't considered the very question of defending the Oplovis sector after the completion of the third phase of "Crimson Dawn," now the picture took on new colors.
Not only is it a source of huge funding — yes, it may not be a hundred billion a month, but the sums are still significant — there is also a deposit of precious metal. Which is the basis of our currency policy!
If we take rough estimates, then considering all reserves, valuables, Palpatine's unrealized (and not even properly assessed) collection, the loot taken by pirates in the Nidjun sector, and other "revenue items," it turns out I will have about two hundred billion. In stable currency.
And we're talking about aurodium — an extremely valuable metal due to its "nobility."
And I agreed to stamp cash from it. Entirely from the noble metal. Yes, these are credit chips of large denomination, but...
In my decision, I was guided by the infamous "imperial gold coins." But I overlooked that they didn't use "pure" metal. They were alloys of gold with other materials. To make the coins hard (gold itself is very soft) and so that no one would think of melting the coins into jewelry, thereby withdrawing money from circulation.
Okay, let's say that a certain part of the "aurodium" at least the ingots from the Karthakk system — will be used for minting cash. If we keep the "coins" at cost value, i.e., made of aurodium exactly equal to the assessed mass of the substance put into the "coin," then there won't be enough cash.
But what if we "dilute" the metal with an alloy? First — the cash will become more voluminous. Second — the alloy can simply retain the percentage ratio of aurodium to foreign metal equal to the value equivalent of the precious metal weight.
In that case, minting will increase the money supply several times. Dozens of times!
And the existing coins can be gradually withdrawn from circulation, melted down, and returned to circulation. Figuratively speaking, from one coin you can get several. And it's completely legal — after all, the Dominion Mint issues the cash.
"Thank you, Colonel," I said. "Return to your direct duties. And don't forget to oversee repair matters — more ships with spare parts will arrive soon."
"Yes, sir," Niovi saluted, then left the quarters.
I, plopping into the nearest chair, began to ponder "how to live on."
* * *
Having finished reading the documents, most of which had been obtained from his own servers on Axila, Anilex set aside his personal datapad, trying to maintain a composed expression on his face.
Despite the fire of rage burning inside him.
Those two bastards had betrayed him! And not just betrayed, not just him — they had stolen from the organization!
He sat before Moff Ferrus, trying to maintain composure, while mentally already envisioning how he would deal with both lieutenants.
The thought that everything he read was disinformation, the privateer did not entertain. Too intricate a job, and most importantly — why? To destroy "Kavil's Corsairs"? To free Edusa and Vandyne from their presence?
They would only need a couple of battalions of stormtroopers with the support of a pair of Star Destroyers to grind the two groups to dust.
Anilex himself would hardly be able to oppose anything after that.
And killing him now would be much more profitable.
Decapitate the organization at once, deprive it of its formal leader, and watch the pirates fight over pieces of the "pie," finishing off the survivors from time to time.
But... the Dominion didn't do that. So what's in it for them?
"Suppose it's true," he said slowly.
"It is truth," Moff Ferrus corrected him.
"Suppose," Anilex said with emphasis. "What's it to you that I found out about this?"
"I came here to negotiate, Lieutenant," the Moff said calmly. He was suspiciously calm. Other Moffs he had dealt with in the past threw hysterics, yelled, threatened, arrogantly promised punishment... This one was some kind of wrong Moff.
"Perhaps," the corsair replied. "And what is the essence of your agreement?"
"I am not satisfied with the presence of armed forces not under my control in the Morshdine sector," Felix continued. "and in general in the Dominion. Your organization is, of course, not as strong as you believe yourselves to be — if we compare you to the might of the regular army and fleet of the Dominion. But I prefer to pay attention to small details."
"That's noticeable," Anilex agreed. "Few would bother to analyze the cargo manifests of a corsair organization in forty-seven different ways."
"Our specialists know what they work with and what they get their pay for," aha, so it's the work of military "slicers." If civilians were involved, the Moff would surely have said "salaries."
"You want me to withdraw our bases and forces from Edusa and Vandyne?" Anilex clarified.
"You will do it anyway," Ferrus assured him. "Of course, if you want to live. Moreover, I consider it my duty to note that the existence of two thirds of your organization directly depends on you. And on the decision you will make based on the proposals I have presented."
"'Negotiate, not demand? What kind of new style of Imperial governance is this?'"
"Consider that I have heard you," Anilex said. "Within a standard week, the bases will be withdrawn, and we will not trouble you again."
"Glad to hear it, Lieutenant," the Moff assured him. "But my proposal is not about that. More precisely — not only about that."
"You want to hire us?" Anilex suggested the most obvious option.
"In a way," Ferrus replied vaguely.
"I like clarity," the corsair admitted. "Let's get closer to the details."
"By all means, I also appreciate this approach to negotiations," the Dominion representative assured him. "So, you've probably already heard that the borders of the Dominion extend over several sectors."
"Yes," the privateer replied. "Morshdine, Nidjun, Oplovis, Ciutric, and everything that used to be the Hegemon."
"This is not publicized, but currently negotiations are underway with the governments of the planets and systems that make up the Sprizen Sector," Ferrus shared insider information.
"We have no interests there," Anilex stated.
"Of course not," the Moff agreed. "You don't risk going up against the Cavrilhu pirate group, which controls most systems in the Sprizen and Quelli sectors, and also has its 'hunting grounds' there and in several other sectors of this part of space."
"One would have to be an idiot to go against the Cavrilhu," Anilex explained his point of view.
"Or to have powerful allies," the Moff noted. "However, the fate of the Cavrilhu is already sealed."
"The Empire also tried to clean them out," Anilex smirked. "And where is it now, and where are the Cavrilhu?"
"A valid point," the Moff observed. "But we have other methods of fighting piracy. Radical ones. And no negotiations."
The lieutenant shuddered.
"I've heard the 'Butcher of Atoa' is after you," he said.
"Commodore Shohashi just solved our problems with pirate attacks in the Nijun sector," the Moff related. "There are no more pirates there. Only the Dominion."
Sounds nice, of course, but…
One would object that pirates always arise precisely inside states.
But it's not worth doing, especially when the conversation concerns the 'Butcher'. Because after him, only mountains of corpses and scorched deserts remain.
"How does all this relate to me and my organization?" Anilex inquired.
"Curious why 'Kavil's Corsairs' didn't take part in the recruitment that was announced a few months ago?" Ferrus suddenly asked.
"We had more important matters," Anilex replied.
"Yes, you just emerged from under the wing of the 'Invids' we destroyed," the Moff nodded. "And you were dividing spheres of influence. You were very lucky to gain control of the group on Axila. Do you like that world?"
"I grew up there—what's the point of hiding what's already known?"
"Now your persistent desire to take part in the life of your home planet is clear," Ferrus nodded.
"I don't want generations of children, like I myself was a couple of decades ago, to see only poverty, spice, and know nothing but killing and robbing," Anilex related.
"Well said," Ferrus agreed. "Slowly but surely, Axila is turning into a festering sore of the Outer Rim. And one day it will burst."
"That's what I'm trying to prevent."
"That's a very commendable endeavor," Ferrus said. "As I understand it, the local government isn't meeting you halfway?"
"They have their interests, I have mine," Anilex said sharply.
"Quite noble of you—to spend most of your reward so that future generations don't follow in your footsteps."
"Thank you for the appraisal, but let's get back to business?" the corsair suggested. "What do you want from me?"
"For Axila to join the Dominion and prosper," the answer was... unexpected. But not unexpected.
"Don't want to break your teeth on us, like Krennel did in his time?" Anilex smirked.
"I'm generally not a supporter of negotiations under the muzzles of turbolasers," Ferrus related.
"Suppose," Anilex nodded. "What's it to you? To clean all the crap out of the planet, you need billions, an army, and many years. And even then, no guarantee it'll work."
"Yes, it's persistent effort," the Moff agreed. "And the Dominion is ready to assist you in this."
"Is that so," Anilex smirked. "You just told me that you strive to throw all crime out of your territories. Axila is an ecumenopolis built on criminal profits. They say about us, not without reason, that we are 'Coruscant turned inside out'. Or something like that."
"Makem Te is part of the Dominion," Ferrus declared. "Heard of it?"
"A haven for smugglers and black market dealers," Felix instantly recalled. "But even there it's better than here."
"Because the government there undertook obligations to take control of illegal business and not allow it to destroy the lives of Dominion citizens," Felix explained. "They are outside Dominion territory, effectively existing on terms of planetary autonomy. Our laws apply, but there are also local customs and orders. And special conditions for being under the Dominion's protection. Axila could follow that example. Get rid of the most harmful revenue streams, but at the same time—become a zone where what is forbidden in the Dominion or the New Republic is legalized."
"Trade in spice, slaves, gladiator pits?" Anilex inquired.
"The last one—maybe," Felix mused. "Slave trade... Remind me about that a little later. But spice... I'm not in favor of that crap spreading across worlds. But we both understand that sentients will never stop short of self-destruction. Besides, there are types of spice used exclusively for medical purposes."
"Yes, yes, yes, 'exclusively'," Anilex nodded. "That's the favorite excuse of addicts."
"Well, it's your right," Felix remarked. "You are a man of firm principles. A patriot of your world. That's why we bet on you, not on any other of the lieutenants."
"So the bastards are alive?" Anilex inquired.
"Yes," the Moff answered simply. "As are all your ships from the other two groups. But the scouts you sent to Edusa and Vandyne, we intercepted."
"And how did you manage to fool me?" the lieutenant asked.
"We faked an alarm message from the base on Edusa," the Moff explained readily. "The relay in the sector is under our complete control. So we simply jammed all your transmissions. And to your 'colleagues' we sent a demand to stay at their deployment locations. Allegedly you were coming for an inspection. I'm sure they had no desire to contact you—too busy hiding their concealed plunder from you."
"I'll deal with that," Anilex promised. "So I understand you're offering me..."
"With our support—overthrow the government of Axila, take control of the planet, bring in what remains of 'Kavil's Corsairs' after you settle scores with the other lieutenants, eliminate all small gangs that won't join you, transfer all planetary defense operations to Dominion control, and also thirty percent of planetary and privateering income."
Anilex listened with his mouth open.
"Are you joking or what?" he clarified. "Even those two ugly advisors didn't demand that much from the illegal business..."
"Yes, because they were outside the law," Ferrus reminded. "The government simply turned a blind eye, nothing more. We are offering to legalize your pirate enterprise, granting you official membership in the Dominion auxiliary forces."
"The same corsairs, just under a different signboard, aren't they?" Anilex smirked.
"If something works well, why fix it?" the Moff asked rhetorically. "As I already said—variations in the terms of the alliance treaty are possible. For example, you strive to minimize the number of children and teenagers who end up in gangs."
"Suppose..."
"So why shouldn't the Dominion take up their patriotic education?" the Moff asked. "Those who think other paths to a well-fed and comfortable life are closed to them become bandits. And how is existence as a criminal worse than becoming a cadet or a trainee in the Dominion Armed Forces?"
"Is that so," Anilex crossed his legs. "So you decided to brainwash the youth like COMPNOR used to?"
"We have no intention of raising xenophobes in the young generation or conducting racial purges," Ferrus objected. "We intend to raise patriots who will proudly serve in the regular forces or sector armed forces. To know that they are protecting the sleep and peace of their relatives and friends, not robbing a drunken drunkard in a back alley, risking a blaster shot between the eyes."
"And what to do with the adults then?" the lieutenant smirked.
"In the Dominion there are so many planets that need to be developed, settled, with cities, mines, industries built," the Moff said thoughtfully. "Not to mention that we always welcome soldiers and sailors, specialists and scientists. The Dominion already includes planets that, under the condition of a tax increase, chose to reduce the number of conscripts for sectoral armed forces, or conversely—lower tax burdens but supply recruits. Or products—we are open to counteroffers."
"Sounds too sweet to be true," Anilex declared. "What's the catch?"
"In that it is an ideal picture of existence," the Dominionite explained. "For everything to be even partly like what was described, it will take at best months, at worst—more than one generation. But work will continue in this direction—whether you want it or not. I am offering you a chance to continue your endeavors not alone, but systematically and centrally. Not to mention that we will rearm your corsairs with more modern weaponry and assist with targeting."
"Clever," Anilex appraised. "To get an ecumenopolis with a multi-billion population that just longs to get out of there to anywhere."
"Yes, I heard that during the Empire, Axila had some of the highest recruitment quotas due to the huge number of volunteers," the Moff nodded in agreement.
"And that was in years when everything was relatively okay," Anilex noted.
"It's never too late to return to the past and take all the best from it into the future," the Moff remarked.
"Is that what the Dominion stands on?" the corsair smirked.
"Yes," Moff Felix answered simply. "And you are offered the opportunity to participate in this grand undertaking."
"Tempting," Anilex admitted. "To turn a backwater into a self-sufficient state with the best of Imperial laws, without xenophobia... And with a non-human at the head. What could go wrong?"
"A rhetorical question, isn't it?"
The lieutenant smirked.
"Actually, I'm interested in what the catch is in the implementation of this whole beautiful fairy tale?" he explained. "If everything was as you describe, your borders would collapse from the influx of people wanting to live under such conditions."
"Maybe," the Moff agreed. "There are immigrants, and we welcome them—of course, if they are not enemy spies."
"Oh," Anilex smiled. "So that's what it's about. Now I understand... You need Axila to prevent a breakthrough to Morshdine or to the Hegemony, isn't that right?"
"Every part of the Dominion has strategic significance," the Moff agreed. "Axila is intended to become a trade center with other states, but at the same time, remain a fortress world capable of withstanding the first strike and holding out until regular forces arrive and destroy the enemies."
"'Enemies,'" Anilex raised his index finger, drawing attention to the plural form of the word. "And do you have many of them?"
"Quite a few," the Moff answered simply. "Basically, most of the galaxy."
"And you really count on something?" Anilex was surprised. "One of the New Republic fleets alone would be enough to crush and destroy you."
"Oh," the Moff smiled. "They already tried."
"And how successful was it?"
"Very successful," the Moff smiled so that his snow-white teeth gleamed. "Their ships now belong to us, and nearly a million prisoners of war are employed in the construction of new facilities throughout the Dominion. However, we expect their numbers to be replenished in the near future."
"Is that some kind of joke?" the lieutenant clarified.
"By no means," the Moff grew sad. "Honestly, we're tired of explaining to them the utter futility of attempts to destroy the Dominion... But they keep coming and coming..."
"They're not that stupid," Anilex grimaced. "Surely there's some plan..."
"Judging by the number of applications for Dominion citizenship from prisoners of war—their surrender is disguised immigration," Moff Ferrus shared his opinion.
Anilex shook his head, appreciating the joke.
"Let's try," he said. "I agree."
"We won't try," the Moff objected. "We'll just do it."
"Then, I suggest first visiting my dishonest comrades with our allied fleet," the corsair grinned broadly. "How much did you say—thirty percent of the loot?"
"Oh, well, you did decide to rob your comrades in my sector," Ferrus smiled. "In that case, thirty percent is exactly your share."
"I'll be satisfied with their heads on pikes," Anilex smiled darkly. "Since the organization is mine, the opponents should be destroyed."
"I completely agree," the Moff nodded affirmatively. "That's how we live. But others, for some reason, don't live in peace."
* * *
Captain Orsan Makeno stood at attention before a hologram.
"Order understood, sir," he replied after the volumetric projection fell silent. "Ready to move out at any moment."
"The ships are already on their way," the hologram said. Honestly, Orsan couldn't even recall moments when he had seen the speaker in person. "Your starship must be at the rendezvous point first. After that, attempt to capture the ship. Everything with you and your men must go strictly according to plan. As soon as you disable the central computer, give the signal to begin the operation. The boarding party will finish what you start."
"Yes, sir," Makeno nodded in agreement. "Confirmation of place and time received. We are ready to depart."
"In that case, proceed," the hologram said instructively before dissolving.
For a few seconds, the captain stood in complete silence and proud solitude, until he made a decision.
Activating his comlink, Orsan gave the order to begin the operation to eliminate Grand Admiral Thrawn.
Only he was not sure of the correctness of his actions.
Well, he still had five days ahead to come up with a backup plan.
Because dying at the hands of the guards protecting the Grand Admiral was something he really, really didn't want...